Queen Z: Face it, you deserve the blame. You can’t control yourself. If there’s a door to beat on, you beat on it. When humans eat their disgusting human food, you beg. When it’s time for the humans to go to work, you hide under the couch. If there’s a plastic anything lying around, you have an obsessive/compulsive desire to chew on it. If there’s a fake tree on the balcony that will bring you closer to a bird…

J Gibbs: Okay, okay, enough already. At least I’m doing what I can, in the midst of winter, to keep myself from being bored. All you do is sleep and eat, sleep and eat, sleep and eat – in between snoring, pooping and the goat sound that continues to make the humans laugh.

Queen Z: If it wasn’t for the lack of opposable thumbs and a way to earn money for kibble, I’d kill the humans.

J Gibbs: Well, see, that’s why you’re bored. You lack the social graces to go out by the humans and snuggle with them on the couch. You’re a bit uppity and bitchy, just like that dark-haired English woman who lives in an abbey and constantly picks on her sister. Why don’t you sit in their laps and purr loudly? You are totally capable. Instead, you wait until human mom is sitting on her throne or at the computer to act all lovey-dovey.

Queen Z: Excuse me, Mr. Conniving Brown Noser. I see how you get all up in their faces and try to act like a pathetic, slobbering dog. If you could make sad puppy eyes, you would.

J Gibbs: What’s a puppy?

Queen Z: Oh, stop pretending. You know full well what you are doing. It’s all a charade so that you can continue to be naughty and the humans will continue to forgive you.

J Gibbs: You’re jealous.

Queen Z: No, I’m bored. I desire something more. More treats perhaps.

J Gibbs: You don’t need more treats. You are looking like a rump roast these days.

Queen Z: I beg your pardon?

J Gibbs: Rump roast.

Queen Z: I call it pleasingly plump.

J Gibbs: Rump roast.

Queen Z: I am big-boned.

J Gibbs: Rump roast.

Queen Z: I am genetically predisposed to roundness. You can blame my mother.

Queen Z: You are so immature. If you were closer, I would dig a claw into your backside and draw blood.

J Gibbs: Why don’t you get up and do it? I dare you.

Queen Z: I would, but I am tired and in need of a nap.

J Gibbs: You napped ten minutes ago. Since then, you’ve only been complaining about how bored you are. How can you be tired?

Queen Z: I’m tired and bored. I desire a nap.

J Gibbs: Why don’t you desire something fun? How about if I chase you around the bedroom until human mom gets home? That would keep you from being bored, or napping, or turning your genetic predisposition into a furry cow.

Queen Z: Meowrrrr. *hiss*

J Gibbs: Whatever. Do you know what I desire?

Queen Z: I can only imagine.

J Gibbs: I desire roast beef instead of kibble. I desire open windows and chirping birds. I desire a new toy every day. I desire to never be yelled at again.

Queen Z: Good luck with that. You might get open windows and chirping birds in another three months. The rest of your desires are dreams.

J Gibbs: Three months? Really?

Queen Z: Get used to it.

J Gibbs: *huff*

J Gibbs: Hey, Your Thighness?

Queen Z: STOP IT!

Gibbs: No.

Queen Z: *sigh*

J Gibbs: I want to ask you a question.

Queen Z: Can you ask it without insinuating that I’m a tad bit overweight?

J Gibbs: Well, the human Natasha calls you fatso. You don’t do anything to stop it.

Queen Z: I swear, if I had opposable thumbs…

J Gibbs: So, can I ask a question?

Queen Z: WHAT?

J Gibbs: What can I do to pass the time until the human gets home? Suddenly, I’m bored.

I want so badly to know what goes on their heads or how they communicate with each other, either in our presence or while away. Then again, I’d be a little afraid that what I perceive as expressions of love might simply be their way of saying, “Get up off that dang couch and feed us human!”

I’m thinking that’s pretty close to the conversation they’re having. It’s funny that you mention roast beef. Our little cat, smaller of the two sisters, has never shown much interest in human food. My wife made a top round roast over the holidays and this cat started demanding to be served beef (and now) chicken, on a plate, on her perch. My wife indulgences but as long as I’m getting roast beef and chicken, I guess I shouldn’t complain.

That’s pretty typical. A cat demands and the human indulges. I used to call Gibbs “chickenhead” because he would voice his desire every time I brought home a roaster chicken. Then Natasha gave him roast beef one day and that’s all she wrote. That is now his human food of choice, although he’ll settle for potato chips and chicken in a pinch. The downside to all of this is that while Ziva doesn’t give a darn about human food (good), Gibbs is now prone to begging (bad). Oh, what a tangled web we weave with our “kids.”